Authors: Anita Heiss
Paris Dreaming (3 page)
I woke on Sunday still tired. I lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about moving into my apartment. But with only two suitcases it wasn't going to be that difficult. I packed everything and checked out of the hotel early enough to test out the time it would take for me to get from the 20th to the musée so I would be prepared for work the next day. I left my cases at reception and Christian the concierge offered to walk me the five minutes it would take to the apartment. Just the offer made me fall in love with Paris that much more.
I walked to the Métro at Alexandre Dumas and got the #2 train to Nation. Then I took the #6 to Bir-Hakeim in the 15th arrondissement and made my way to quai Branly. I walked past the Australian embassy on rue Jean Rey and then the Eiffel Tower. I envied the Australian diplomats and the view they must have from their offices.
As I faced what was to be my new office for the next five months, I couldn't believe my own life and how lucky I was. I stood in awe of Aboriginal artist Lena Nyadbi's creation on the musée's fa§ade. The size of the work '
Jimbirla and gemerre
(spearheads and cicatrice) ' rendered into the wall expressed the vastness of the creator's own country. I looked forward to starting my day, every day, with such inspiration. I thought about the first time I had seen that image on the page back at the NAG. I was momentarily breathless.
I looked at my watch. It had taken me only forty-five minutes in total. I boarded a #76 bus back to rue de Bagnolet and sat marvelling at the ability of the driver to manoeuvre the huge tank through small streets, often only an inch away from parked cars. I was glad for the air-conditioning on the bus, and guessed that it would be better to be above ground than below it on the subway on a hot day in the heart of summer.
As we turned corners, I looked at different businesses along the way. From the window I gazed at the boucheries and considered becoming a vegetarian, but the French even made the word 'butcher' sound sexy. I saw motorcycles on the streets ' Yamahas, Kawasakis, Harleys ' but I'd never heard of the Motul brand.
I was grateful there was an announcement of each stop accompanied by a rolling red electronic sign at the front of the bus. I read and listened at the same time, hoping it would improve my French, even slightly.
I looked at the Juliet Monument at Bastille, which commemorated the July 1830 revolution, before spotting L'Opéra Bastille ' the modern opera house ' that I first saw on my 'touristy' days. I was pleased I was getting my bearings. I was becoming a local.
I squeezed close in my seat as if it would make a difference as the bus sat within three lanes of traffic with only two lanes marked on the road.
The French really are crazy drivers
, I mumbled under my breath. I stared out the window and saw young people peddling their bikes alongside the bus and thought them incredibly brave.
I got off before Mama's Shelter and treated myself to lunch at L'Abribus. I'd walked past it so many times the last few days and each time was inspired by the locals eating and drinking, although I wasn't so inspired by the smoking. Lots of people still smoked in Paris and that disturbed me. Perhaps they didn't have massive anti-smoking campaigns like we did.
I went inside the restaurant, and ordered the penne au fromage, the Créme Brulée l'orange and a glass of red. The space had wooden chairs and tables and benches with red paper placemats. There was a funky wine bottle display and the ceiling was two shades of blue with yellow circles. The service was average, but I liked that I could sit in a groovy place that was close to my soon-to-be new home.
The lunch crowd finally found its way inside and in no time at all there was a father and baby, a lone French traveller reading a guidebook and two businessmen. I finished my meal and walked past
the
p¢tisserie ' pretending not to, but most definitely looking to see Michel. I couldn't. I headed back to the hotel.
Concierge Christian helped drag my cases around the corner to my new home in rue Saint-Blaise, a little street that looked like it belonged in a small town in the country, not in Paris. I loved it the first time I saw photos of it online, and now I was finally moving in.
'Welcome, Mademoiselle Cutmore,' the old man said. 'Cutmore' had never sounded more elegant than how he pronounced it, more like Cootmurrrre. 'I am Dominic Robert.'
I shook Monsieur Robert's hand before he and Christian carried my cases up to the second floor to my tiny studio apartment. I knew it was going to be small but it was more obvious when the three of us and my two huge cases tried to enter at the same time. Nevertheless, it was modern and clean and I loved it. It had one of those pull-down beds that hid in the wall, creating a living room during the day and a queen-size bed at night. I had visions of it flying up into the wall while I was asleep on it.
The apartment walls were stark white, in contrast to the dark of Mama's Shelter, and I could smell the fresh paint with the slightest of breaths.
'Is it okay?' Monsieur Robert asked. 'I repainted the front door and the bathroom door because the last tenant made many marks when they moved out. It is not toxic paint, there is no more lead in paint,' he reassured me, even though I hadn't even considered the toxicity of paint.
'It's fine. You did a good job,' I said, knowing the need to praise the work of a handyman. Monsieur Robert puffed his chest out with pride.
The kitchen cabinets were designer red, the appliances stainless steel and the kitchen table and two chairs were chrome. It was a funky pad hidden in such a traditional-looking building. The bathroom had been renovated and the white walls and vanity matched the tiny blue-tiled shower recess. There was no bath, but I knew I could manage. With water preservation an issue in Canberra for so long, I'd become used to having really quick showers anyway.
Monsieur Robert was talking me through the broadband internet access and the garbage collection days, but I was already thinking about where I would put my books and clothes and other bits and pieces that I had in my case. I was planning on heading back to the markets for the linen tablecloths I'd seen. I liked the flat-screen TV, although I didn't imagine spending much time watching it.
'I love this place, Monsieur Robert, it feels like home already,' I said.
'Please call me Dom, everybody does.'
'Thank you, Dom, please call me Libs, everyone back home calls me that.'
Dom smiled like a father, the father I hadn't had for most of my life. I had a fleeting moment of homesickness and missing my dad, and wondered what he would have thought of his only daughter moving into the 20th in Paris. I couldn't even imagine him saying 'arrondissement' without a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip.
'I will let you settle in now. I will leave these forms for you to sign, please, and you can bring to me. I live in apartment four on the first floor.' He put the papers on the kitchen table.
'And when you are ready, just across the street Le Café Turgot makes the best coffee in the 20th. I go there every day. Tell them I sent you.'
I wondered what Michel might've thought about that.
I spent the afternoon unpacking and making my apartment my home. I peeled the massive amounts of bubble wrap from a painting of a goanna ' my totem ' done by a local Gamilaroi artist and hung it directly opposite the doorway. I put Archie Roach on and listened to his mellow tones, and paused a moment to remember his partner, the late Ruby Hunter ' a special life lost too soon.
The only place I could find to hang my firey calendar was inside a kitchen cupboard door. Hidden but not out of reach. I just needed to put some food in there as well.
By the time I had everything out of my cases, the place was full and already looked lived in. I was about to head to the supermarket when there was a knock at the door.
'I am sorry to bother you, Mademoiselle Libs.' It was Dom holding a black poodle.
'Not at all, was my bad singing bothering you? The music too loud?'
'Not at all. My wife, Catherine, she made me come here to say she really likes the man singing and could she perhaps one day borrow your CD?'
'Oh, please take it,' I said. 'I have his other works to listen to on my iPod.'
Dom smiled enthusiastically. 'Oh, Catherine will want to cook you something now for this. And she will be very happy with me also.'
'Well then, we will
all
be happy, won't we?' I smiled. 'And I'm extra happy your English is so good.'
'That is because I have only English-speaking people in this flat for twenty years. I had to learn and so did Catherine, and we get to practise with our grandchildren who learn it at school. Perhaps you will come have coffee and speak to us in English so we can practise more?' Dom looked hopeful.
'Of course, I'd love to.' I couldn't believe how I'd lucked out with the apartment and Dom.
My landlord left content that he could make his wife happy and I headed to the supermarket, taking the long route so I could pick up a hand-sewn tablecloth and an art deco vase plus matching bowl from the markets. They were housewarming gifts for myself and a small attempt to Paris-ify my apartment.
I struggled up my stairs, carrying the gifts as well as all the essentials, including five of the most popular cheeses as recommended by Caro ' Brie de Meaux, Roquefort, Camembert, Cantal and Bleu d'Auvergne. I had also picked up some cheap roses and a plant to give some life to the place.
I struggled still getting over the jet lag and planned on an early night. I had bread and cheese for dinner, washed down with a housewarming toast to myself. I ironed my clothes for work, organised my papers and NAG promotional kit to take into the musée, and sat down to send an email home to the girls before I went to bed.
I woke up at 5 am after a solid night's sleep, eager to start work. I decided to catch the bus rather than the train and waited nervously for the #69 from Pyrénées'Bagnolet.
There was an air of friendliness amongst the locals at the bus stop, but no real conversation going on. I was trying to take in every action, smell, and sound. I watched the road workers fixing a pothole, postal deliveries across the road, well-coiffeured women with beautiful skin strolling down the street looking effortlessly glamorous, while shops opened their shutters and doors.
I boarded the spacious, air-conditioned bus, said bonjour to the driver, who only nodded a reply, and punched my weekly ticket into the slot. I was on my way to the musée, to my new job. I was excited and only a little nervous. My Paris working life was about to begin.
As the bus made its way across town, I stared out the window at couples, groups of teenagers and business people all sitting on sidewalks having their morning coffee and croissant.
What a life!
I exclaimed silently in my head.
When we stopped to let people off, I saw a young girl hug and kiss her father goodbye before he ran off to work and the girl and mother walked away in another direction. I momentarily pondered whether my own life would be like that one day, but my thoughts were broken when I saw a Eurasian child speaking French. My immediate thought was how cute, maybe even exotic, but such multiculturalism was supposed to be 'normal' in France, so why would I be surprised?
I thought back to Paris' racially motivated riots of 2005 and 2007 and segued quickly to our own in Cronulla and the ugly face of intolerance. I was hoping that this city presented a more acceptable society for me to live in, albeit briefly.
I got off the bus at the Louvre and had plenty of time to eat before the walk to the musée, so I went into Cojean, one of the few places where food looked healthy and tasty without the deliciously buttery, creamy or fattening extras that French cuisine was famous for.
I had a fresh fruit juice, yoghurt and bircher muesli, and checked out the fashionable looking space, set in an old building. White laminated tables and benches, grey and chocolate-brown leather and chrome stools, massive silver ball lights. I felt like I was having breakfast in a nightclub. The salads and baguettes looked so good, I was already imagining what I'd order next time. I'd found a new interest in food since landing in the city and every mouthful of my muesli made me think of Lauren and how she'd love the French palate.
I strolled along the Seine, crossed over the Pont Royal, turned right on the other side, and walked along quai Branly. I followed the directions I'd been given by Canelle to the staff entrance at the back of the building. I climbed up the stairs to the reception desk and while I waited for Canelle to collect me, watched couriers come and go, two people manning one phone on the front desk, visitors waiting to be served, but no-one stressing out except me because no-one seemed to be able to find Canelle.
I calmed down when I saw Judy Watson's
two halves with bailer shell
(2002) reflected above me. I couldn't believe I would be greeted each morning by the rich Prussian blue of her canvas made into an enormous installation. She had won the Moét et Chandon Prize and numerous others for a reason. Watson was the perfect example of why I wanted to bring more Indigenous artists to the world stage. There was so much talent in our community and it was easily measured when you saw such stunning works. I took a deep breath, lost in a moment of awe as I considered the journey of just one woman from Waanyi country becoming part of the interior of this extraordinary institution.
'Hello,' a soft voice only just broke my thoughts. A gorgeous black woman stood before me, smiling. She had black hair slicked to her head, full lips with glittery lip gloss, dark brown eyes and fingers covered with bling. She was shorter than me and was wearing black pants and top with flat red shoes.
'
Bonjour,
Elizabeth,' she said warmly. '
Je suis
Canelle. It is so wonderful to have you here. Everyone is very excited.' She kissed both my cheeks.
'
Bonjour, je suis
Libby Cutmore,' I said in response, emphasising the 'Libby', concerned that perhaps she had confused me with someone else.
'Of course you are, but Libby comes from Elizabeth,
oui
?'
'
Oui
,' I said, although no-one had ever called me Elizabeth. Not since kindergarten and only when I was in trouble.
'Elizabeth is so much more elegant, don't you think?' She raised her eyebrows, seeking my agreement, and her red scarf was so perfectly tied around her neck, I couldn't argue.
'
Oui
.' I'd just agreed to change my name, what the hell was I doing? I was thrown off balance but gathered my senses quickly. 'I am very excited to be here also.'
'I love your shoes,' Canelle said, looking at the black Kenneth Cole sandals I'd picked up when I'd been in New York visiting Lauren. But my feet were already killing me.
'
Merci beaucoup
.' I wished Lauren could've heard the compliment about my fashion style. She would've been impressed.
Canelle smiled. 'I need a coffee first, and you?'
'
Oui
.' Hell, I'd need to say more than '
oui
' or she'd think I would need to be called boring Libby and not elegant Elizabeth.
I followed Canelle to a coffee machine downstairs below the staff entrance, which turned out to be a hub of activity with people catching up on their caffeine hits. Senior staff, curators, administrative staff and labourers were all chatter and laughter.
'I need a cigarette,' she said, taking me to the smoking area ' which I was surprised to find also had artwork near it. I laughted to myself at how the French could make any place look cultured and artistic, even the smoking room. My distaste for smoke remained though.
'This is a great place to catch up and get all the news or share news, it's still all work here,' Canelle advised on exhaling. 'That's what we call the musicology tower,' she pointed behind me, 'it goes up every floor and has instruments from all over the world.' I turned to see the massive glass edifice rising from one floor through to the next.
After her cigarette, we continued our tour of the building and Canelle briefed me on the basics of the organisation. We went up a lift, along corridors lined with what looked like average, yet new, offices. We made our way back via the staff entrance again to the museum entrance, where patrons were going through security and into the main exhibitions. All the while, Canelle kept talking. She was from Guadeloupe and so at least we had something in common in terms of being people 'of colour' in a colonising country.
'There's around two hundred and seventy staff here, including trainers, cleaners, caterers, security and electricians. I'm in charge of the Oceania collection and I work alongside Philippe Peltier, the curator who worked with Hetti and Brenda on the original commission, as you would know.' We turned a corner. 'I secured the job because my English was good. You have to be bilingual to work here.'
I took a deep breath, knowing my French still wasn't that great. We walked past the bookshop and when I turned from the window display, I looked ahead to see Jean Nouvel's architecture from a different angle.
Canelle continued, 'We have shows at the musée in the springtime and the summertime. We recently had a Hawaiian dance show, and a South African choreographer with musical instruments made of bamboo. It's a wonderful space for a whole range of international work. That's why I love it here.'
We went back inside the musée and she directed me forward.
'This is the school groups and workshops reception. You'll be speaking mainly to French students, mostly from around Paris. You can do it in English, of course, but you must talk slowly.'
'I thought perhaps there would be a large international audience?' I said, hoping I didn't sound disappointed.
'Actually, about eighty per cent of our visitors are French, and mainly from Paris. Which is opposite to the Louvre, where only forty per cent are French.'
'That's interesting.' I was surprised.
'Well, we have items in our collection that are international, that the local French population haven't seen. And we are relatively new.'
I nodded with understanding. 'I get it. The Louvre is what the rest of the world wants to see, and the rest of the world is what the French want to see. Sounds like a good balance really.'
'Exactly.'
Canelle took me to meet the head of human resources to get my paperwork sorted, and as we walked I tried to remember every turn, lift and stairwell and the names of various staff we met along the way. There were five floors and three office buildings in the musée. It made the NAG look like a cubby house. I was trying to recall which lift went to what floor as we met the curators of each section. All the while, I waited patiently to see the artwork-adorned ceilings.
In yet another lift Canelle introduced me to the marketing manager, Adrien: short, balding, lean, round face, bushy eyebrows, piercing grey eyes and cigarette-stained teeth.
'
Bonjour,
Elizabeth, we are very pleased to have you here,' he said, looking me up and down, 'and so young to be working on such an important project.'
I wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic and questioning my credentials or actually flirting with me.
'I am well-qualified to do the job, Adrien, and I am very excited about being here. I'm looking forward to the opening of
Authentication.
'
He put his hand on my shoulder. 'Of course, we are looking forward to the exhibition as well.' I looked at his hand on my shoulder and he removed it. 'And we need to talk about the marketing and publicity. I have some journalists lined up to speak to you. We have a release ready to go out.'
'Excellent! May I see it first, please?'
Adrien used the same hand from my shoulder to almost shoo me away with a flick of his wrist.
'What for? It is a media release, we do them all the time.'
With a hint of confusion and some frustration in my voice I said, 'It's just that back home we always have the relevant curator read the copy before it is released, it's a process we follow. We generally have a quote by the curator as well. Would you like me to write something?'
'Elizabeth, it is my job to know the language to use with French media.' Adrien was clearly pissed off.
'I'm sure Elizabeth understands your role, Adrien,' Canelle came to my aid.
'Of course,' I said. 'Adrien, I don't question your knowledge of the media at all, but I don't think you could possibly know what I would say. If you could please send me the draft I will insert my own quote.'
The lift door opened just in time to prevent a major argument and he exited. I felt hot with embarrassment and anger that already I had a white man wanting to write my words. I understood that organisations everywhere worked differently, but this was just plain wrong. I was worried what Canelle might think.
'Do not take it personally, he is like that with everyone,' she said, before I had a chance to ask. 'He is very good with the media, but sometimes thinks he is the one that runs this place. He is only on contract here while our head of marketing is on leave. I think he likes flexing his male muscle while his very strong female boss is away. I will make sure you get the draft release.'
My blood stopped simmering towards a boil when we reached Michael Riley's 'cloud' series along the ramp wall on the ground floor. It was what I had waited and wanted to see more than anything since reading about it back at the NAG. It took my breath away to see his iconic images ' particularly the boomerang and the feather ' so large and so dominant in this amazing institution. The site was beautiful and I knew that no matter whether viewers got the intended messages of the artist or they translated their own message, everyone would walk away having felt an emotional reaction to the work. At that moment, I had never been more proud of being a Blackfella working in the arts.
The tour continued into the Claude Lévi-Strauss Theatre, the cinema and the range of venues for cultural education activities. We finished at the café and I was already overwhelmed with what I had seen and heard.
'I must go to another meeting. You should have a coffee now and then read this.' Canelle handed me a press kit titled
Arts and Civilisation of Africa, Asia, Oceania and the Americas
. 'Spend the rest of the day going through the collections slowly, getting to know the layout. There is much to see.'
Canelle walked off and I sat at an outside table with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. I couldn't believe this would be my life for the next five months. I vowed to sit there every day for coffee and then looked at the prices on the menu. It was equivalent to $9 for a cappuccino, $8 for a Diet Coke, and the same price for a rosé! I may as well have a wine for that. I decided that breakfast once a week at Le Café Branly would be my indulgence, my working gift to myself.
